Chapter 21
The wait for the last streams of sunshine to disappear wasn’t long; Aicha and Rachid had got ready in silence as the sun disappeared beneath the skyline and into the sea, leaving their room cloaked in shadows.
“Be careful,” he whispered, giving her one last kiss as she squeezed his hand in return. The remnants of peace that had once rested between them ebbed away, leaving only hardness.
Torches were lit across the wall where soldiers patrolled, but the streets and alleys that were once heavily occupied with both Maghrebis and the Portuguese settlers were now silent. Either hiding or had already fled. It was void of life.
Mere hours ago it would have saddened Aicha, but it was now useful to her, an advantage.
It had become significantly easier to run towards the gate, cloaked in darkness, without the fear of being caught in the open.
Fifteen men and women accompanied Aicha, while Rachid had taken eight, adamant that he would need no more than that.
With so many of the soldiers congregated by the docks, having converted the last two remaining ships into their temporary barracks until Duarte freed them from duty, he would need fewer numbers to slip through undetected.
Instead of approaching the gates and guard patrols head-on, Aicha had split her group into two, approaching from either side pressed up against the wall.
It would make it much harder to spot them, unless the guards leaned over the balustrade and squinted.
Though her cloak and hood concealed most of her, she kept her face bare.
She wanted every soldier she killed to know it had been her to twist the knife into their chest tonight.
Crouching down on the balls of her feet, she motioned for the group on the other side of the gates to emulate her. They would wait for Rachid’s signal to move, which—by her estimation—would come within moments.
The explosions erupted so violently that Aicha felt as if her eardrums had shattered, one following another in quick succession.
Clenching her teeth, she watched as smoke and flames erupted in the distance, the ground shaking beneath her feet as the ships and dock exploded.
In the distance, she could see the debris shoot up into the air.
Shouts echoed from above as the patrol on the wall spoke in their mother tongue, followed by the distinct sound of their boots slamming down the stone steps as they rushed towards the explosions.
Aicha rose slowly, her fingers raised in the air in permission to attack once two sets of guards had reached the ground.
Their throats were slit, quick and painless—more than they deserved, Aicha thought—as she bypassed them to climb up the steps, withdrawing her sword as she ascended as quietly as possible.
Their advantage was silence; they would not alert the one remaining guard, who stood peering over the balustrade in what Aicha presumed was a desperate attempt to spot his comrades’ movement.
His back was to her, and Aicha approached, raising her sword until its tip pressed into his throat.
He stiffened, slowly coming to stand straight and, with caution, turned to pin his alarmed hazel eyes on her.
Recognition dawned across his tanned features, and for a brief moment Aicha found it bizarre that they hated her people so much.
Their features could almost be called similar, on occasion, yet that only ever seemed to fuel their violence.
Aicha felt a streak of smugness lash across her chest as he began to understand the severity of his situation.
“Open the gates,” she ordered, gaze hard.
“You know I cannot.” His voice was steady, unafraid. “He will kill me.”
“I will kill you, and I will not make it painless,” she sneered, pressing the edge of her blade hard enough into his neck that it drew blood. “Open the gate.”
His jaw clenched, though the confidence in his gaze waned. A flicker of what Aicha could only describe as hope flashed in them. “If I do, will you let me go?”
“You have my word.”
He nodded, comforted by her promise, slowly taking steps back as Aicha followed.
He turned away from her, moving at a pace that aimed to maintain peace between the two as they descended the stairs.
Saladin and the others stood watch, nodding towards Aicha as she reached the ground, following them towards the metal and wooden contraption that sat by the metal gate.
Through the gaps lay darkness, though Aicha knew that in a matter of hours she would see the flames of torches as the Sultan’s armies approached.
The banner of Maghrib and a chorus of gazelle horns, marking a new age, would accompany them.
The guard began to twist the windlass with great effort, and Aicha motioned for another cloaked member to join him.
The contraption turned, pulling at chains as the metal gate began to groan, slowly at first as it lifted off the ground, and then faster and louder.
When the soldier had secured the windlass, ensuring it remained open, he sank to the floor.
He breathed hard, as if it had taken more strength than he had.
Their group congregated around the open gate.
The open gate.
This was decades of her baba’s plans, the endless late nights in which he poured over maps and corresponding letters from the Sultan’s legions. The hangings, and whippings.
It was the evenings she had spent sparring with Samira, their hands sore from sharpening blades on whetstones, scars littering their knuckles from brawls, or from wielding a dagger carelessly.
Whispers between herself and Samira in the early hours of the morning, discussing what life beyond the walls could look like.
Endless nights, dreaming: they would learn to ride horses, travel to Fez, or the Rif of the mountains where their mother had been raised.
The harsh words from her father, pushing her to her limits so that—when this moment arrived—she would be ready.
But neither he nor Samira were here to witness it, to stand beside her.
The rage came quickly, swift as the turning tides and clouding her vision.
Her hands shook, breathing quickening. The dark shadows that swirled within the cavity of her chest demanded freedom.
Perhaps they would cleave her open and burst through, unleashing all that she had felt so viscerally in the last two nights.
Abruptly, she turned back towards the soldier who lingered by the windlass. Her steps were quick, sword gripped in both hands as she raised it above her shoulder. Aicha’s swing was one of brute force, the man’s wide eyes and gaping mouth mere seconds away from voicing pleas.
“You gave your word,” he stammered.
“I lied.”
The sword slashed across his neck.
His head fell.
Silence engulfed the cluster of rebels that surrounded her.
Fouad had spent so long concerning himself with the possibility that Aicha would be unable to kill, worried that when the time came she would not be able to follow through.
Yet there she stood, watching blood darken the stone beneath her feet.
But Aicha was dissatisfied. That familiar flame of darkness whispering for more lingered, its hunger for death and the souls of those who had taken her heart was not yet sated.
“The gate must remain open until dawn; we will be attacked before then.” Her voice was cold, steely, confident. “I want every man and woman on the wall keeping watch.”
There were grunts of agreement, and Aicha turned her head to locate the familiar dark gaze of Saladin. “I need you to stay here. When they come, they will try to destroy the windlass to keep the gates closed. Do not let that happen.”
He paused, as if unsure of Aicha after witnessing what she had just done.
As if he could not separate the child he had watched grow from the woman who stood before him, unshaken by the act of beheading a man.
But he did not know that she’d killed many more times since the cistern, nor did he understand that the absence of Fouad and Samira had obliterated any mercy.
Eventually, he nodded, walking towards where she stood. “Understood.”
The arrow pierced his skull before he reached the windlass.
On instinct, Aicha raised her sword, rearing back as Saladin’s body thudded to the floor.
She turned towards the pathway that led into the citadel, her gaze on the surrounding soldiers, swords drawn, as they closed in on Aicha’s group.
Her chances were not low, and as she counted in her head how many stood around her own squad, she realised that if they engaged in battle her odds could not be worse than Rachid’s at the docks.
“As predictable as your father was.” The voice, filled with exhaustion and barely concealed fury, taunted her.
She watched Duarte emerge, his once crisp, cream uniform dirtied with blood and ash.
His blond hair was dishevelled and tinged with darkness at the front where a gash still bled.
It seemed he had been within the blast radius, and Aicha took satisfaction from that.
Yet, despite all that, he kept his shoulders high, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he cast his eyes over her.
“I see his execution did nothing but fuel your arrogance in continuing with this foolish plan.”
She felt that tendril of darkness eclipse her, only for a moment before she pushed it aside. But its voice felt stronger, more potent. It settled in her ears like the heavy beating of her heart, demanding one thing. The same thing.
Let me out.
Instead, she tilted her head, forcing the white-hot fury in her chest to settle as she did what she always did best with Duarte: provoke him.
“Do you plan to stand there and order subordinates to kill me? You always lacked sportsmanship, but I never believed you to be a coward.”
“You’re a nuisance just like your father and sister, desert whore,” he sneered, though the name had never disturbed her.
She had never seen the desert.
“You have spent so many years making dramatic declarations of how you would kill me yourself, so draw your sword.”
The gaps in the silence that followed her taunt were filled with awkward mumblings from Duarte’s men, shared looks. If this had been any other situation, Aicha would have laughed, ensuring her cackle was obnoxious enough to push him over the edge.
His attack came without fanfare, drawing his sword abruptly and launching his large body towards Aicha. She raised her sword, blocking his attack. His force was heavy and brutal as she kicked against his chest and pushed him away.
The clash of their swords disrupted the tenuous suspension of hostilities between the two groups, and they erupted into wild shouts as each attacked.
“Protect the gate!” Aicha screamed.
A brief moment of fear invaded her veins, an unbearably human fear that these were to be her last moments.
If this battle would be the death that Naima had foreseen.
If that was so, she would take Duarte with her.
He was erratic, weary and evidently in need of medical assistance.
Aicha continued to deflect every reckless swing of his sword, his head shaking off dizziness every few paces.
She intended to wait until he had exhausted himself before she killed him. Slowly.
“You are a weak pacifist, just like your father. Cowering away from making a kill,” he spat, and though it was one of his weaker barbs, it spiked enough irritation for her to bend at the knees as he swung his blade, swiping her own against the back of his legs.
She sliced open fabric and flesh, and she stepped away before he could stab at her.
He dropped to one knee as blood began to pour from his wound, faster than she had planned.
Duarte did not get up, instead using his sword to prop himself upright as sweat dripped from his forehead.
Aicha moved to strike a blow that would disarm him, but froze as he began to laugh loudly over the clash of surrounding swords.
“Did you know I beat your sister until her face was unrecognisable? Your father begged for mercy as her eyeballs burst. He wept, like a child, while I covered her face in her own blood.”
Aicha felt the bile in her stomach climb up, heat in her chest ascending her throat. The tresses of darkness screamed from within.
Let me out.
Let me out.
Let me out.
“By the time I hung her,” he laughed out, spitting blood onto the floor, “all her teeth had been beaten out of her.”
She dropped her sword, releasing a scream that burst from her throat as she sprinted and crashed into Duarte and onto the floor.
Her fist connected with his jaw as their limbs tangled in the dirt, her knuckle shattering at the impact.
She did not cease her blows. Duarte did not block or attempt to evade her either, and instead gripped onto her with an iron-like strength, rolling her beneath him.
His elbow smashed into her temple and the pain came so abruptly that her vision swam as he lay on top of her.
Pain echoed deep into her head as she fought for consciousness.
Her body fought to remain in control as that voice of darkness demanded release.
That it would save her, and finish what she had started.
Aicha snatched herself away from it, distracted by Duarte’s forearm pressing into her throat and collarbone.
Her breathing became strained, and she fought against the hold until her gaze caught the flicker of silver in his free hand.
He held a dagger high above his head, and she blocked his attack with her own hands.
He was stronger, forcing their position, but too weak to maintain agility and speed against her.
As the tip of the dagger edged closer to her left breastbone, her own strength waned.
Using the forearm against her neck, he pushed down, cutting her air supply enough for Aicha to begin gasping.
He straddled her, and Aicha watched his eyes gleam in delight as her hold faltered and the dagger crept closer.
It pierced her skin, slowly sinking into the flesh at a pace that only a sadist would take enjoyment in, but she was unable to scream. Her vision began to blur and her lungs contracted in a desperate attempt for air.
“I will enjoy killing you slowly.”
He whispered it, hot breath fanning across her face. He pulled the dagger from her chest abruptly, rearing back to stab her again until someone’s fist connected with his chin, bloodied and cut and sudden.
Rolling to the side, Aicha peered at a pair of familiar, large, brown leather boots. Her breath came back to her like a burst of sunlight, and she heaved it in and out gratefully as she curled in on herself. The pain of her stab wound bloomed across her chest, and down her arm.
Those same brown boots stepped forward, shielding her from Duarte.
“Get your hands off my wife.”